


The Pump

by bagma



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagma/pseuds/bagma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something definitely needs oiling</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pump

Sam hadn't the faintest idea how he ended up perched on that oak in the middle of the night, but he had the unpleasant feeling he was not going to like the way he'd come down from it. The branch he was sitting on started swaying and creaking ominously, and he found himself griping it with all his might. Vertigo made his head swim and his hands were damp with sweat, but he wasn't so overwhelmed with fear that he didn't notice that the bark felt weird under his fingers; it was soft and silky instead of rough, and his grip appeared to be strong enough to crease it. And now that he concentrated on it, the creaking of the branch sounded strange too, oddly metallic and too regular to be caused by a sudden blast of wind.

“You ought to have greased it yesterday, you ninny!” he thought, although he couldn't for the life of him remember the reason why the Party Tree needed oiling. Then it struck him that he might be confusing the oak with the water pump, and seeing as said pump reached three feet at its highest point, he couldn't possibly be perched so precariously on it, unless he had been turned into a very small dwarf. 

Finally the pumping tree gave a particularly loud squeak and the branch snapped. Terrorised, Sam felt himself fall, but as he was about to crash into the ground, he jerked awake and found himself sitting in his bed, his hands clutching the sweaty sheets with desperate strength and his yell still echoing in his ears. 

The bedroom was dark and peaceful, and the only sound he could hear beside the wild thumping of his heart was the rhythmical creaking of the water pump being energetically worked. He slumped back into the pillow, sighing in relief. Frodo was right, he really shouldn't have eaten that third part of raspberry tart lavishly topped off with whipped cream at supper; as delicious as it had been, the satisfaction that this indulgence in dessert had given him couldn't compensate for having such ridiculous and disturbing nightmares. He couldn't help but wonder what Frodo would have to say about his dream; although Frodo was too polite a hobbit to descend to I-told-you-sos, he was not above raising one eyebrow in a meaningful and rather irritating way whenever he proved Sam wrong. Not that happened so often, but still... Maybe he'd better not tell Frodo, after all. Sharing a bed with someone didn't mean you had to share everything.

Fortunately, Sam's nightmare didn't seem to have disturbed Frodo's sleep. Pricking up his ears, he tried to make out the familiar soft sound of Frodo's breathing and realised that he couldn't hear it over the monotonous creaking of the pump. He reached out and froze in surprise as his hand met with the flimsy cotton of an abandoned nightshirt instead of Frodo's warm and compact body. He sat up hastily, lit up the candle on the bedside table and frowned as his eyes confirmed the verdict of his hand: Frodo was not lying beside him. Sam was alone in the bedroom.

He squinted at the clock on the mantelpiece. Three in the morning. Well, that was weird. Since he had started bedding his more than willing gardener, Frodo usually slept uninterruptedly; as he liked to say -and Sam chose to take this as a compliment- Sam was every bit as effective as a soporific, without the unpleasant side-effects.

Slightly worried, Sam got up, wondering whether his lover was feeling unwell. Although Frodo, unlike Sam, had been quite reasonable with the raspberry tart, he did polish off the cheese, so a little queasiness was well within the realms of possibility. Sam hesitated, torn between his reluctance to embarrass Frodo in catching him in an undignified position and the visceral urge to come to his rescue, whatever the consequences. 

His reflections were interrupted by a particularly loud squeak coming from the pump, and Sam jumped. The irritating sound had been so intertwined with his dreams that until then he hadn't noticed it hadn't stopped when he awoke, and he was suddenly struck by the realisation that the pump being worked in the dead of night was very odd indeed. Why would anybody want to water Bag End garden at this unearthly hour? It was true that the Shire was currently suffering an unusual heat wave, but Sam had copiously watered the beds at sunset and surely there was no need to repeat the operation before the next morning, even though the temperature was still high and the night air uncomfortably sultry. And anyway, who in Middle-earth would have the absurd idea -not to mention the sheer audacity- to enter Mr. Frodo's property and start using his pump without being given permission to do so, and in the middle of the night to boot? First the nightmare, then Frodo's mysterious disappearance, and now the pump... the night was definitely getting weirder and weirder, and Sam found himself hovering by the bed, uncertain whether he should check up on Frodo first or try to get hold of the intruder.

A sudden silence startled him out of his indecision. Whoever had been working the pump had stopped abruptly, and there was no question of him sneaking out of the garden before Sam took a good look at so eccentric a visitor, and possibly collared him and gave him a piece of his mind. He ran to the window, hitched his nightshirt up and was about to step over the sill when he heard a loud splash, followed by a gasp and the unmistakable sound of Frodo's laughing. Sam leaned out of the window and was greeted by the sight of the Master of Bag End standing by the pump in the altogether, dripping wet and giggling like a tween.

Mesmerised, Sam watched as Frodo put the empty bucket back under the tap and ran his hands through his hair, shaking off drops of water that cascaded down his back in sinuous rivulets. The sky was clear, the moon full, and Frodo was a study in shimmery silver and dark indigo. Sam's eyes followed the same path as the water, sliding down Frodo's body as though they too had fallen prey to gravitational forces, but unlike the flow his gaze stopped as soon as it reached the small of Frodo's back. Sam inhaled sharply and froze, staring dazedly at Frodo's perfectly rounded buttocks, which looked almost opalescent in the moonlight. Only when he saw that tempting backside flex and tighten as Frodo began working the pump again did Sam manage to shake off his lust-induced trance. 

A few moments later, he found himself standing in the garden without any memory of jumping over the windowsill. Tugging his nightshirt off over his head, he started walking purposefully toward Frodo, his cock already hard and leading the way. Sam's feet were silent on the lush grass but Frodo must have felt him approaching, for he stopped pumping and turned to face him, an particularly naughty smile curving his lips. 

Sam nearly tripped over his own feet at the sight of his lover. Frodo's face, arms and chest were gleaming as though they were made of white marble, while his lower body was shrouded in moving shadows. Was Frodo's arousal matching his own? Sam couldn't wait to find out. And if it was not the case, he'd see that it did as quickly as Nature would allow, Sam promised himself. 

“I'm sorry I woke you up, Sam, but I was too hot, and the bathroom is dreadfully stuffy,” Frodo apologised as Sam came to him and took him in his arms with silent determination. He didn't sound very sorry, though, and the heated way he was pressing himself against Sam proved clearly that he was actually quite happy he had roused Sam from his slumber. Frodo's skin was delightfully cool under Sam's hands, but it warmed quickly under Sam's eager touch. He could also feel Frodo's soft cock stir and harden against his hip as the heat rising between them counterbalanced the dampening effect of cold water.

“I don't mind at all, love. I was having such bad dreams it was a relief to wake up. It's my fault anyway, I really ought to grease that pump,” Sam said, then held his breath as Frodo's fingers slid down Sam's chest and belly and brushed the head of Sam's hard shaft.

“Maybe you should, Sam... I even brought some oil with me, just in case,” Frodo breathed, gesturing toward a familiar bottle lying on the grass beside the bucket. “But maybe not right now, though... There's something here that seems to be in a more urgent need of oiling than the pump, don't you think?” He stopped teasing and started working Sam's cock with maddening skill, making him gasp and rock his hips helplessly.

Sam had always prided himself of his ability to get his priorities straight in any circumstances, and tonight was no exception, as he set out to prove it to Frodo, right there on the freshly mowed lawn.

The pump could always wait. They couldn't.


End file.
